


Five Things Isaac Mendez Will Never Paint

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Things Isaac Mendez Will Never Paint.  (Heroes/Harry Potter crossover fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things Isaac Mendez Will Never Paint

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Character Death (Hello, Sylar is in the fic. What do you expect?)  
>  **Author's Notes** Quotes for section headers by, in order: Henry Miller Mary McCarthy, W.H. Auden, Baltasar Gracian, and Romain Rolland. Opening quote from _Hamlet_. Some Heroes dialogue lifted directly from various episodes or bent to suit my needs. No suing, all hail Tim Kring and Jo Rowling!

**Five Things Isaac Mendez Will Never Paint**

_What a piece of work is man!_

 **i. The ordinary man is involved in action, the hero acts. An immense difference.**

BURNT TOAST DINER  
MIDLAND, TEXAS 

" _Ichi...ni...san...shi...go_!" 

Expectant smile in place, Ando slowly opened his eyes. Instantly the smile vanished; Hiro was not there. 

_"Just count to five...and I'll be back. We'll celebrate my victory!"_

Ando had tried to stop Hiro from going, but Hiro was stubborn and didn't listen. But Hiro did keep his promises, and so Ando was now very worried. There was nothing else to do but wait, wait and hope Hiro would return. 

Frowning, Ando picked up his coffee mug and took a sip. 

"Eurgh." It was cold and tasted old. He finished Hiro's half-empty glass of water to wash the taste away. When he put the glass down, Ando noticed he had gotten syrup on his fingers. Hiro and his stupid fat American waffles. 

Ando was half out of his seat when his mobile began to ring. Sitting back down, he dug in his rucksack with his clean hand. 

" _Moshi moshi._ Hiro?" 

Only it wasn't Hiro on the other line; it was Peter Petrelli. Peter Petrelli said the cheerleader was in Texas and he would be coming to meet them. As Ando said good-bye to him, he hoped Hiro would be back to meet Peter Petrelli. 

Once the phone was back in its place, Ando headed for the restroom. He passed a bulletin board full of leaflets and pictures. Some of the waitresses were gathered around it, and Ando apologized profusely when he accidentally jostled one with his elbow as he edged around them. 

By the time he came out of the restroom, the waitresses had gone back to their business. Ando started for his booth, but something on the bulletin board caught his attention. 

"Hiro." His hand reached out, touching the image of his friend on the photograph. Hiro stood next to the waitress, Charlie. She wore a strange hat on her head. 

"Excuse me," Ando called over to the waitress behind the counter. "But when was this–" 

The woman had been piling up dirty plates, and one slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor with a loud noise. _CRASH!_ "Gimme a second, hon," she said, then ducked down, out of sight behind the counter. 

_CRACK!_

But Ando barely heard her because he was too busy staring at the man who had suddenly appeared out of thin air in front of him. 

"Hello," Ando said, wondering if Hiro had sent this man. "You are like Hiro? You come to give message?" 

"Bloody hell," the man said. "I think I bollixed _that_ up." He hadn't appeared to hear Ando at first; he jumped slightly, blue eyes rounding beneath a curtain of ginger fringe. "'m not a hero, mate. 'm not an owl, either. Where am I?" 

"You are in diner," Ando started to explain, but the waitress woman cut him off. 

"You askin' 'bout Charlie's birthday picture, right, hon?" she asked, leaning over the counter, squinting. 

Ando looked to the picture again. Nodding, he stepped to the side of the red-haired man so he could see the waitress. 

"Six or so months 'go. She and that Hiro were real, real tight." 

So this woman knew Hiro. Hope began to well up inside him. "Please. Where is he now?" 

"Don't know, sweetie. He popped out of Charlie's life some time back." Giving Ando an apologetic smile, she turned to the pick-up counter when a bell dinged. 

"Oy, I was talking to you, mate," Ando's company said. When Ando stepped back to pay him full attention, he could see the man was as annoyed as he had sounded. "Where am I?" 

If this man was not expecting to be here, the explanation could take awhile. 

"Please." Ando gestured to the booth he had been sharing with Hiro. "Sit down." 

"All right then." The man plopped down across from Ando. He looked exhausted. The pinched irritation in his brow and in his eyes also stemmed from frustration and confusion, Ando guessed. He knew a little about those things himself. 

"You are in Texas Burnt Toast Café. Midland, Texas. You are not supposed to be here?" Ando remembered his manners just then. Sticking out his hand as he had seen done countless times during introductions in American movies, he said, "I am Ando Masahashi." 

"Ron Weasley," the red-haired man said, giving Ando's hand a hard shake. "And I'm definitely not s'posed to be here. How far m' I from Austin?" 

"I am not sure," Ando said slowly. "But you cannot take yourself there? It must be easy for you. It is easy for Hiro. Sometimes." 

"I told you, I'm not a hero! I'm just Ron, and I've got to get to Austin." 

So this man was not like Hiro. That did not explain how Ron appeared out of nowhere. "What is in Austin?" 

"Harry. And hopefully something we've been looking for." Ron sighed, wrapping his hand around Hiro's empty water glass. Idly he moved the glass in small circles on the table top. 

"Is Harry your friend? Hiro Nakamura is my friend. He is a very good man, but he went away to do something right now. He will be back." Ando crushed a few nuggets of cottage cheese flat with the back of his spoon. 

"Yeah, he's my best mate," Ron shared, then pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Dunno how I ended up here. She _told_ me the coordinates. I reckon I must've buggered something up. Never hear the end of it." 

At least now Ando had someone with which to converse, someone to help pass the time until Hiro would return from his trip back in time to save Charlie. 

"So you have a power? Hiro bends space and time. How do you do it?" 

Ron said up a little straighter. The hand on Hiro's glass stilled. He looked apprehensive for a moment before speaking. "If you call magic 'power', then yeah. Otherwise, no." 

"Magic. Like Merlin or Gandalf?" As soon as Ando asked the question, he winced. He only knew of those people because of Hiro, and Ando was beginning to worry about his friend again. 

"Never heard of Gandalf, but yeah, like Merlin. What about you?" 

"Without Hiro, I am not much of anything." Hiro was the one who was a hero. Ando was just along because it was apparently his destiny, according to Hiro. 

Ron's mouth made a thin line, and he nodded more to himself than to Ando. "When I'm not 'round Harry, I feel the same way most of the time," he admitted. 

"So this is why you are wanting to go to Austin," Ando said sagely. 

There was a grunt in return, and then a, "Shite!" 

Ando was about to ask what was wrong but Ron cut him off with, "Sodding syrup!" Scowling, he pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and licked it, then scrubbed furiously at a few of his fingers. Ducking his head, Ando smiled, a little amused he had not been the only one to fall prey to Hiro and his stupid fat American waffle obsession. 

"Not funny," Ron grumbled. When he was syrup-free, he balled up the napkin and tossed it to the table. "What's the fastest way out of here?" Standing up, he looked down at Ando expectantly. 

"I have seen busses and taxi cars driving by on the street," Ando offered after a few moments of thought. 

"Great. C'mon." 

Having nothing better to do, Ando followed Ron to the diner's outside, grabbing a newspaper off a recently-vacated table along the way. 

No busses or taxi cars drove by for a while. Ron grew more and more impatient. He kept mumbling strange words under his breath, like "Muggles" and "Apparate" and "no Galleons" and "Hermione". They were both leaned against a parked car, discarded sections from the newspaper resting on the hood between them. 

It wasn't until Ando reached the classified section of the _Midland Reporter Telegram_ that Ron's luck changed. 

A taxi car rolled to a stop in front of them. The door opened. A dark-haired man got out. 

"Ando?"   
Lowering the paper, Ando smiled. It could only be Peter Petrelli! 

"Hi," the man said, shaking Ando's hand. "I'm Peter Petrelli. How are–" 

"Ron!" 

Ando looked over Peter's shoulder, watching as another dark-haired man crawled out of the cab. 

"Harry?" 

Peter and Ando turned, watching as Ron and the second dark-haired man went to each other. 

The dark-haired man grinned, relief all over his face. "C'mon, Ron. I– I found it. But we need you, 'cos it should be the three of us, you know? Hermione helped me find you, she's waiting and–" 

Peter gestured to Harry. "We split the cab from the airport. Funny we were both headed for the same place, right?" 

Ando nodded, watching as one red head and one dark head disappeared into the taxi car. "Funny." 

A freckled arm stuck out to grab hold of the door, yanking it shut. Then the door opened a crack again, Ron's face peering out. 

"Thanks, Ando. Found my mate. Rather, he found me." 

Cupping a hand around his mouth, he called over, "I see that, Ron Weasley!" 

The taxi car's engine came to life once more with a roar, and then it began to roll away. 

"Who was that?" Peter asked, watching until the car rounded a corner, disappearing from sight. 

"Ron Weasley, who is definitely more than 'not anything'." Ando smiled slightly, then shook himself out of his reverie. "About Hiro-san..." 

**ii. We all live in suspense from day to day; in other words, you are the hero of your own story.**

LUPIN RESIDENCE  
ENGLAND 

The door opened slowly, revealing a tall, rail-thin man. His eyes were tired but kind, and Mohinder felt an immediate kinship with him. 

"Hello. Remus Lupin?" 

The man smiled, then held the door open further. "Yes. Come in, Dr. Suresh. I've been expecting you. Would you like some tea?" 

Mohinder stepped inside the house, eyes scanning the dingy environment slowly. "Yes," he said, eyes fixating on a crowded mantelpiece. "Earl grey, if you have it?" 

"Of course. I wouldn't be a proper Brit without it," Remus said amiably, and Mohinder chuckled as his host disappeared into the kitchen. 

Taking a slow gait around the room, Mohinder stopped when he reached the mantel. It was full of strange photographs that moved. Clearly a technology American and Indian companies hadn't picked up on just yet. Remus was in many of them, flanked with by three boys in a good lot of them. All school-aged, Remus looking serious or laughing at the three of them – a pudgy one with beady eyes; a dark-haired boy, tall and smug and handsome; and the last a messy-haired boy with thick glasses and a broad, confident grin. Other photos depicted an older Remus – taking tea with a white-haired, bearded man with half-glasses; icing biscuits with a plump red-haired woman; kissing a pink-haired bride in a wedding portrait. 

"Kettle's on," Remus announced. 

Mohinder turned, one hand still on the wedding portrait. "Thank you." Gesturing to the picture, he added, "She's quite lovely. You're a lucky man, Remus." 

"Was." 

"Excuse me?" Mohinder raised a brow in polite interest. 

"Was," Remus said again. "I'm afraid we weren't entirely compatible in the end." There was a faint trace of a smile there, albeit a sad one. 

"She didn't understand about the lycanthropy?" 

"Oh, she understood that quite well. She understood everything rather well. However, she couldn't accept the bisexuality," Remus said frankly, calmly brushing a bit of fuzz from the sleeve of his jumper. 

"I see." Mohinder offered an apologetic smile. "For the betterment of you both then, I should say." 

"It's good to finally meet you, Dr. Suresh. I was beginning to worry we could continue to play answerphone tag forever," Remus said lightly, changing the subject. 

"As was I. And please, call me Mohinder."   
"As you wish, Mohinder," Remus returned, one corner of his mouth quirking. "I suppose you're interested in seeing my...ability, are you not?" 

"I am, though I suppose I came a day too early for that. In my defense, I wanted to meet with you prior to the evening the moon would turn full to study any effects your condition might have on your body in its regular form, as well as to get a DNA sample. I'm very interested in learning how the genes have been affected. You are the first lycanthrope to return my calls, Remus." 

A shrill whistle came from the direction of the kitchen. "Be right back." 

Remus returned a few moments later carrying a tea service tray. When he set it down on a nearby stand, Mohinder could see that, in addition to the tea and accessories, the tray also contained a small platter of chocolates. 

Obviously noticing Mohinder's look, Remus confessed, "I have a bit of a sweet tooth." As he fixed two cups, he added, "Chocolate is also extremely beneficial in a number of ways." 

Curling his fingers around the offered cup, Mohinder nodded in thanks. "It certainly is. Dark chocolate, in particular, is thought to contain cardioprotective properties." 

"But we aren't here to discuss chocolate, Dr. Suresh." 

"Mohinder. And no, we are not." 

"Mohinder," Remus repeated, a small smile upon his lips. "So you should like to get to it, I expect?" 

Setting down his cup, Mohinder returned the smile. "Yes, I would." 

Remus set his cup down as well. "Follow me. The light's better in the corridor."

They walked down a narrow hallway until reaching the center. A light hung overhead, its high wattage providing more light than the sitting room. 

"Would you be so kind as to hold this?" Remus inquired, pulling his jumper over his head. Mohinder accepted it silently, eyes raking over Remus' chest and torso. "Here are the scars from the initial attack, when I'd been a boy." 

Bending over slightly, Mohinder inspected the pale, shining scars. They were long and jagged; it was clear Remus had put up quite a fight as a child. "And these?" he asked, fingers hovering over another set near a nipple. "I did that to myself." 

"Pardon?" Mohinder straightened, looking at Remus curiously. 

"I lose my sense of self when the moon rises. I practically claw out of my own skin, Doctor."   
Of course. The lycanthropic transformation surely was incredibly painful; Mohinder could imagine Remus beating against his own chest, trying to urge the transformation to happen faster so he would not have to endure the pain of it all. "I see." 

"I don't think you do." 

"Pardon?" Mohinder asked for the second time, confused. 

"Touch me, Dr. Suresh. Imagine." 

Mohinder sucked in a breath, hesitating. 

"Do it." 

He complied, laying one hand on the center of Remus's chest, eyes focusing on the contrast of his dark skin against Remus' pale skin. A silence hung between them, the only motion the rise and fall of Remus' chest and, consequently, Mohinder's hand. 

"Imagine," Remus said softly, "your heart begins to race. You can feel it, something inside of you. Changing. Growing. Yearning to become animalistic. Primal. Carnal. Can you imagine that?" 

Swallowing thickly, Mohinder nodded mutely. He could. All too well. 

Remus stepped closer to him. Mohinder could feel the other man's breath warm against his cheek. 

"Now imagine your body tearing itself apart only to become whole again, only stronger this time. Nearly impervious to everything. But, unlike humans, you don't have twenty different things pulling you in twenty different directions. You have one desire and one desire alone." 

"Yes," Mohinder whispered, and his eyes shuttered closed as he felt a hardness against his thigh. 

"Do you know what that desire is, Mohinder?" 

"I do." His answer was breathless, which could not be helped. Mohinder was having a difficult time keeping himself focused, keeping himself from being anything less than professional, though that was proving to be quite a problem. 

"Lust." 

Mohinder's eyes flew open, tension and heat pooling in his groin despite his best efforts to avoid such a thing. 

"Bloodlust, specifically," Remus added, meeting Mohinder's eyes. 

"Naturally," Mohinder managed, and then he could no longer help himself. His hand skirted down the middle of Remus' chest, fingers lightly skating over his gaunt belly until a thumb hooked in the waistband of Remus' trousers. 

"There is no resisting its call," Remus murmured hotly against Mohinder's ear. 

"No," Mohinder choked as their cocks ground together, separated only by cloth and time. 

A stray, vague coherent thought cut through the frenetic dance of want whirring in Mohinder's mind: There would be no problem getting a DNA sample from Remus Lupin before the night was through. 

**iii. No hero is immortal till he dies.**

TONKS FLAT  
ISLINGTON, LONDON, ENGLAND 

He stood in front of the mirror, learning how _it_ worked. As expected, it did not take him long to learn how. Knowing how things worked was ingrained in him. Intuitive aptitude. A natural ability. As this, too, now was. 

_Bitch was no match for me._ Sylar grinned at the thought, turning from the mirror to look at the cupboard across the room. His third kill in the wizarding world, and by now he was an expert with cleaning charms. No trace of blood remained on the carpet. The locking charm on the cupboard door was incredibly strong. No one would be able to crack it save for the strongest wizard alive, which was undoubtedly _him_ , so Sylar did not worry about the discovery of this body. 

Sylar focused on his reflection, smug satisfaction setting in as his hair lengthened and his features became smaller, more feminine. A beat, and the nose became long and hooked, eyes wide-set and green. Another beat, another face entirely. Hanson, Suresh, all of them. They would never find Sylar again. 

He could look like any gender or any age, and there would be no stopping him. Those on the list were just as safe as those in the wizarding world, which was to say not safe at all. He was superior to them all, and one day he would be the only person with special abilities – all of them – left on the planet. That day would come, and Sylar would be whole. 

A pounding on the door drew Sylar's attention away from his reflection. 

"Oy, Tonks! Open up. It's Charlie!" 

Sylar stood rooted to his spot, weighing his options. He could risk opening the door with no guarantees the person on the other side had magical abilities or he could not answer, hoping this Charlie would assume Tonks wasn't home. 

The desire for more power, more magic won out in the end. 

Tonks' face had been burnt into his brain just before he'd taken hers. Her shockingly pink hair. Her heart-shaped face. Her pale skin. Her lips, the bottom one much fuller than upper. It took Sylar mere seconds to affect her appearance. Calmly, casually, he opened the door. 

The man standing on the other side had dark red hair, a smattering of freckles, and the strangest outfit Sylar had ever seen. Everything seemed to be made out of some sort of skin, though it wasn't snake or lizard, that was for sure. 

"Well hullo to you, too," Charlie said jovially, leaning partially in the doorway, having a look around. "You inviting me in or've I got to give you the old what-for in plain sight of old Mrs. McLocksley across the hall?" 

Quirking a brow, Sylar gestured for Charlie to come in. Charlie shut the door and wasted no time in flopping down on one of the settees, kicking his boots up on an apothecary table. He patted the cushion beside him, and Sylar accepted. As he sat, Sylar took notice to a huge gash on Charlie's forearm. The wound was fresh, even though it had obviously already begun to heal. 

Charlie saw Sylar's questioning look. "One of the dragons transferred over from the Transylvania reserve acted a bit of a prat today. It's nothing." 

The information made Sylar smile. Dragons. All the confirmation he needed. Charlie was a wizard. 

"So," Charlie continued, putting on a pout, "I came all this way from bloody Romania to pay you a surprise visit and you can't even give your old man a snog?" 

"I can give you something else," Sylar promised, the smile becoming sly. 

"Yeah?" Charlie sat up, a hand on Sylar's knee. "What's that?" 

A beat, and Sylar covered Charlie's hand with his. "Immortality." 

And then the screaming began. 

**iv. Aspire rather to be a hero than merely appear one.**

NEW YORK CITY 

He didn't go back to the roof. Undoubtedly Peter would find him there, and Claude didn't particularly want to be found again. He was through playing trainer to a pathetic sod. It was a waste of his time. Besides, the lot of New Yorkers were selfish bastards; they deserved to get blown up. 

The last couple of weeks had been a mistake. Claude had gone soft in his old age or something. He'd let his guard down, let someone in, and it had brought him nothing but a crap-loaded bin of grief. He'd honestly fooled himself into thinking he had seen something _different_ in Peter. That Peter wasn't like the others. That in some way Peter was his equal, and equals should be able to see each other. 

Rubbish. 

All Peter had been was bloody trouble. 

Cramming his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Claude fell back into his old routine. Walking the crowded city streets was familiar and comforting. The people were like sheep and just as dumb, never noticing when he nicked their wallets or their iPods or their posh watches. 

Five days after disappearing from Peter Petrelli's life for good, Claude Rains the Invisible Man became noticed. 

The hour neared one, the sidewalks jammed with people rushing back to the jobs at the conclusion of their lunch hour. Claude had nabbed himself a silver Rolex, five rings, and an mp3 player by the time he spotted his final mark before heading back toward Port Authority (where a rather good hot dog vendor had a stand with fair prices – fair by New York standards, not that Claude was going to be paying for his own lunch). 

The man was around Peter's age, of average height with white-blond hair and an incredibly well-tailored suit. Claude knew the man's billfold was in his left trouser pocket, and he walked closely behind the man, keeping to his left side. They unexpectedly turned down a relatively empty side-street, and Claude made his move just as a heavy-set gentleman talking on a mobile approached them. It was clear the gentleman would pass very closely by Claude's target, and so he waited until the most opportune moment to strike. 

His fingers had no sooner curled around the billfold than the target's hand had latched onto Claude's arm. Claude started in surprise; how had the man known he was there? Why had the man not blamed the passing gentleman? 

"Listen carefully, Potter," the man snarled, dragging Claude into an alcove between two buildings.

Potter? Claude didn't know a Potter. Was it possible his mark knew another person with the power of invisibility? Christ, the poor fuck, whoever he was.

"I. Don't. Have. It. Got that through your slow, thick skull?" The man glared in Claude's general direction, his eyes resting around Claude's shoulders. Obviously this Potter chap was a great deal shorter than Claude. "I told you that before and I'm through helping you and your Order. I'm out. I don't know how you found me here, but just go– go– Act civilized for once in your life and take off that hideous Invisibility Cloak while I'm talking to you, git." 

An invisibility cloak? 

What shit. Some fat bastards at a technological crap company had developed technologies to mimic Claude's ability? That was not bloody on. 

"Can't take it off, mate. Haven't got one on." 

"You're not Potter," the man said, eyes narrowing. He didn't let up his hold on Claude, however. "And if you don't have an invisibility cloak on, I demand you tell me how you're doing that. Potion? Hex? Accident?" 

"How 'bout it's in my genes? That work for you?" Scowling, Claude wrenched his arm out of the man's grasp. 

"Explain yourself, then," the man snapped. 

Claude rolled his eyes. "Introductions first. It's only polite." 

"I'm D– Domovoi. Mason." 

Snorting, Claude sincerely doubted that was the guy's name. 

"Well then, Mason. I'm Claude bloody Rains, and you can piss off." 

Claude didn't stick around for the bloke's reaction. He was through with making small talk. Slamming his shoulder hard against 'Mason's', Claude pushed past him and ran. 

**v. A hero is a man who does what he can.**

NEW YORK CITY 

Peter hadn't known what to do until Nathan mentioned Suresh's name. While Peter wondered if it was too late to be cured, he couldn't discredit the possibility that Suresh might be able to help him in some way. When Nathan's campaign manager interrupted, Peter made the split-second decision to simply _go_. 

Rendering himself invisible, Peter shot out of one Nathan's opened office windows. He flew fast and furiously over the city's skyline, adrenaline and anguish over Simone's death urging him on. His landing in front of Mohinder's building was a bit rough, hard on the knees. Grunting, Peter looked both ways before revealing himself. Fingers curled around the handle of the building's main door, he pulled back–   
"Peter? Petrelli?" 

Peter's hand froze on the door, head craning slightly to the left so he could see over his shoulder. "Harry, right?" 

The other man nodded, and Peter turned around, goggling at him. Of all the places....what were the odds? "What are you doing here?" 

"Looking for someone," Harry said. "Heard he was in New York, and he's got something I need." 

"It's a big city. Good luck finding him." 

"Not too big, apparently. Ran into you, didn't I?" Harry smiled slightly, and Peter found himself returning it. "But it could b–" Breaking off abruptly, Harry gestured toward a spot on Peter's cheek. "What's that, there? Are you hurt?" 

"This?" Peter raised a hand, touching the spot. He could feel the dried blood. Simone's dried blood. "I– It's not mine." Ducking his chin, Peter inhaled deeply, shakily. 

"Someone close to you got hurt," Harry said quietly. It hadn't been a question. "Happened to me, too." 

"Are– is your someone all right?" Peter asked, his voice much more choked than he would have liked. 

"No," Harry said flatly. "She died. Murdered." 

Peter sucked in another gulp of air. Despite himself, he needed to know. He needed to hear it, to feel another's pain that wasn't his own. "Why?" 

"'Cos she was too stubborn. Wanted to fight, wanted to protect me, wanted to help save the world. But I couldn't save her. So she's dead, and my best mate hasn't got his sister anymore," Harry said darkly. 

"Simone– she– I understand," Peter said after a long, heavy silence hung between them. 

"I figured you would, somehow." Harry sighed, rocking back on his heels. 

"Saving the world. I understand that, too." Grinding his teeth together, Peter lifted his chin. He met Harry's gaze, eyes flashing, feeling rejuvenated in some strange way. Empowered in their likenesses. 

"I think anymore to save the world, you've got to save yourself first somehow," Harry muttered, and Peter made a low noise of agreement.   
Opening the door to Mohinder's building, he propped it open and shook Harry's hand in farewell. 

"That's what I'm here to do." 

"Yeah," Harry said softly. "So'm I."


End file.
